OCD, STD and stories that, by the will of fate, happened to one programmer

Preface

Disclaimer: I am not a writer and I ask you to forgive the literary and artistic shortcomings of my story. Also in the text there may be inaccuracies in the use of terms related to military service.

Some names and titles have been changed.

Let me make it clear right away that I am not a real welder. I took up “real” programming only after going on academic leave from my second university. But more on this later.

I started learning programming on my own back in school (Small Basic was my first language). After 11th grade I entered the city polytechnic for instrument engineering. After studying there for a year (I mostly spent my time watching movies, going through Everlasting Summer, and godless activist activities like the yellow student union), I realized that there was nothing to catch there and made a strong-willed decision to re-enroll as a first-year student, but this time at a medical university (by From the stories of former classmates, I concluded that they had a lot of fun there).

At school, I didn’t know biology at all (especially the love for biology, and biology for me, was not promoted by the broken flower of the biology teacher in the 11th grade). But because The entrance exams for the medical university in our city were of the Unified State Examination type, I quickly got better at the test tasks and received 95 points out of 100 on the entrance exams. Studying at the medical school was much more interesting and fun.

OCD

The first bells appeared at school, probably in the eighth grade. Initially, this manifested itself mainly in ritual actions (those who watched the film “The Aviator” will understand me easier). But, contrary to stereotypes, this was not hand washing. Re-reading the same line in a book, if the first time I had the imprudence to think about something bad that could happen to me or my loved ones; crossing out and rewriting the same sentence in a notebook (this made my school notes look disgusting); inability to leave the room if, on the first try, I, again, thought about something bad, etc. Over time, this spread to basically all my actions. Then – on thoughts. I could repeat the same thought for several hours (so-called “mental chewing gum” or rumination) in order to get rid of possible negative consequences.

If you are interested in hearing more about what OCD looks like “from the inside” of the patient’s head, write in the comments, I will tell you more in the next article.

Despite the fact that it was obvious that something was wrong with me, I could not think that these were manifestations of a mental disorder. A little later, in grades 10–11, I was able to temporarily put the disease into remission with the help of “autopsychotherapy” (I think this is the most appropriate term). I liked a girl from my class then, and I artificially created an obsession for myself: “if I give in to compulsions, then she won’t like me.” And it worked. For a while.

After this episode, remission was replaced by relapse several times, but I still did not seek medical help. Because I was a juvenile moron, and I didn’t dare tell my parents (due to their conservatism and assuming what their reaction to this would be; as it turned out later, I was right about the reaction). I don’t want anyone to experience something like this, but if it does happen, seek medical help immediately. It will only get worse.

By the time I entered medical school, the course of the disease began to worsen. I decided that I have a sufficient degree of analytical thinking and information literacy to, armed with the latest clinical recommendations, prescribe treatment for myself (don’t repeat my mistakes, self-medication is bad, contact a specialist; I shouldn’t give an example with a car and a service station) .

I started taking fluoxetine. I bought it without a prescription (fortunately or unfortunately, in my city the rules for dispensing prescription drugs were not as strict as in the Russian Federation, and I was only refused a couple of times in several pharmacies). Sometimes I took my grandmother’s medical record and wrote down prescriptions there, supposedly from a neurologist.

Fluoxetine really helped me (at least subjectively; in addition to remission of OCD, it helped me become a “healthy don’t give a fuck”). Helped until the fourth year.

STDR

Even in my second year, there were several strange episodes when I could not contact the headman for several weeks and not send assignments (back then we had distance learning and perhaps it was this that saved me from expulsion).

During the holidays before my fourth year, I got a job as a nurse in the surgical department of the hospital, where I did my internship at the university. I really liked working there, the team was very good, it was in this department (and not at the university) that I learned all the manipulations that I now know (intravenous injections, placing catheters, dressings, etc.). After a while, I even started going there on my weekends to study with doctors. I started by filling out medical documentation, which the doctors happily dumped on me. My happiness knew no bounds when one of the surgeons said, “You’re doing nonsense, go wash, you’ll hold the hooks*.” In the surgery cycle, I answered better than anyone, which, naturally, I was terribly proud of.

_{* “wash” in medical jargon – perform preoperative hand treatment; hooks – surgical instruments for spreading the edges of a surgical wound.}

At some point, after the start of the new school year, I suddenly felt that I was no longer enjoying my work, moreover, it was unbearable for me to continue working there. I wrote a statement on my own (I remember that the head of the department then thought that I was leaving because of criticism from him regarding the conduct of certain manipulations; I said that this was supposedly because I was leaving to work for an ambulance) .

At the beginning of the first semester, I and several other classmates were chosen to go to a conference in the Russian Federation. This event, it seems to me, was a turning point. A week before the trip, I simply stopped going to classes, explaining this to my classmates, parents (and myself) by the fact that I needed to prepare material for the conference. In fact, he was just lying on the bed in his grandfather’s apartment, which he had moved into from his parents. I don’t remember at what point I started having problems sleeping. I would stay up until 5:00–6:00 and then wake up at 16:00–17:00.

Even before the trip, I often imagined the scene of my death (possibly suicide*) in the public toilet of one of the Moscow train stations. How I, bloodied, slowly slide down the wall and the world around me slowly fades away. These thoughts brought me a strange and painful satisfaction and peace.

* I can’t say that I had serious suicide attempts. Maximum – episodes of self-harm: superficial cuts to the wrists (the last episode was relatively recently, scars are visible on the forearm as I write this text), and attempts to overdose on β-blockers (can cause bradycardia up to cardiac arrest).

School of Robotics

After leaving university, but before hospitalization, I worked for some time in a private further education institution. It was designed mainly for primary and secondary schoolchildren. There I developed from scratch and launched a game programming course based on Minecraft. After leaving there, it seemed like a stupid idea to me, but two years later I found out that the course was continuing and seemed to be quite successful.

How I rested in the PND

When my parents found out that I was not attending classes (the head of the group contacted them), a conversation took place in the spirit of “what are you making up, it was hard for us too, but we didn’t take antidepressants, and you just want some light dopamine?!”, but I didn’t care Finally, they decided to take me to a private psychotherapist (interestingly, he met in his office at the clinic). After a long conversation, the details of which I will miss, he advised me to contact the associate professor of the department of psychiatry and addiction medicine at my university, which is located in the PND, so that I could be hospitalized not on general terms, but as a medical student.

Arriving at the department, I told my story to the associate professor, mentioning my self-medication, she said that in my case it was necessary to be hospitalized. I answered without hesitation that I was ready, to which she seemed a little surprised (patients of all profiles, as a rule, refuse hospitalization until the last minute). After which she called the local psychiatrist at the clinic and told me that I would still be hospitalized under general conditions (which is why I, in principle, did not feel disadvantaged).

This was followed by packing my things, a long conversation with several doctors, meeting my attending physician (accompanied by two residentsforensic psychiatric expert and psychotherapist). At the first conversation with the attending physician, when asked what was upsetting me, I answered that, for example, talking with her made me feel worse (because throughout the conversation she did not take my words seriously and joked with the residents), after which the patient’s relationship The doctor began to improve faster.

I was switched from fluoxetine (SSRIs) to venlafaxine (SSRI) in combination with small doses of haloperidol (an antipsychotic) and carbamazepine (a mood stabilizer). The first couple of days my tongue and facial muscles were almost completely numb, my mouth was dry, I could hardly speak.

I spent about two months in the ICU (which is unusually long for the department of neuroses or borderline conditions in which I was located). I took a laptop and throughout my stay I solved problems in physics, mathematics, laboratory programming, etc. to order. The rest of the time I talked with my neighbors in the ward and department, the vast majority were military. There was one physical education teacher who “tried to take preventive measures once a year” and several elderly women. What’s interesting is that the doctors (as I understand it, from the Russian Federation) lived in our own department, opposite our ward (they were served set meals from the dining room, which, to be honest, I was jealous of, because we were fed barley on the water).

Later, an associate professor of the Department of Psychiatry and Addiction Medicine (while still a patient, I was setting up a printer in her office) had a conversation with me and said that my condition is the result of character traits (personality disorder (?)). I still don’t know how authoritative this conclusion is.

I first saw my diagnosis when I went to a medical commission to apply for academic leave: “Obsessive-compulsive disorder, anxiety-depressive syndrome with insomnia disorders.”

They discharged me under very strange (as it seemed to me then) circumstances. I came to the head of the department to tell him that I was feeling worse. To which she replied that they were going to discharge me, “otherwise I will be transferred to another department, already closed.” I agreed to be discharged. Perhaps in vain.

In general, no matter how strange it may sound, I felt comfortable in the IPA, and I consider it an interesting experience.

Later, after discharge, I learned that there is such a thing as SSRI-induced apathy. I can’t tell if I was really depressed or if this was just a side effect of fluoxetine. In any case, for both diagnoses the treatment is SSRIs.

How I worked as a 1C programmer. Episode 0

After being discharged, I was restless for some time due to the fact that I could not do anything, but I craved activity. I spent my days in my grandfather's apartment, alone, falling asleep in the morning and waking up in the evening. I don’t even remember what I did with myself. The only rays of light were meetings with my girlfriend (who supported me throughout my stay in PND).

I tried to get a job at a factory, at a trading company as a freight forwarder, and as a nurse at a private clinic in the surgical department. But every time I was overcome with inexplicable fear and anxiety. The last place has a particularly unpleasant story. I went on day shifts a few times and everything was fine. I even began to feel happy that there was meaning in my life and that I was once again useful to people. Finally, I was put on the night shift together with a nurse and an orderly. Everything was fine until the evening. Then I was overcome by irrational fear mixed with intense melancholy. The simple man wanted to cry and run away from there. At first I tried to hide in the toilet, where I just sat on the toilet, wiped my tears and tried to drown out the sounds of sobbing. I went outside, called my girlfriend, we talked for a long time (this was the period of free time between filling out the documentation for the day and the evening procedures). Then I told her something that greatly upset and offended her, and which I regret to this day – that one day, when she was staying at my grandfather's apartment, I waited until she fell asleep, went into another room and just sat, watching into the darkness and thinking that now is the perfect moment to die.

After the conversation and the cold air, I felt a little better. I returned to the department, washed my face and started my evening injections. Running between the wards, I felt alive again for a while. This was followed by a night's sleep (like all doctors, not too long – about five hours), getting up for morning injections and another wave of anxiety mixed with fear and despair. I just packed my things and went home, after which I felt relieved. I did not answer calls from the head nurse. Several months of apathy followed.

How I worked as a 1C programmer. Episode I

While still at school, I was looking for a part-time job for the summer and, having seen an advertisement with information about the vacancy of a 1C operator, without fully understanding the essence of this position, I downloaded Khrustaleva’s textbook and began to delve into the intricacies of the 1C platform. I didn't have enough then for long.

After escaping from my last job and after several months of apathy, I went out looking for work again. Then at hh I came across a vacancy from a local retail chain for the position of a 1C programmer. The vacancy promised 100k in hand, which compared to my previous salary as a nurse (even in a private clinic) was very good (later at interviews I was often asked why I chose 1C and not, say, ML, to which I replied that I chose because , that there was demand, which is, in principle, true).

In a couple of days, I mastered the basic capabilities of the platform using YouTube videos from Ilya Leontyev and confidently sent them my resume. A couple of days later they called me, and a couple more days later they scheduled an interview with the IT director. At the meeting, he asked me standard questions about my experience, and offered me a small test task to change a standard printed form. Here I failed, because… During these few days I did not get to the extension mechanism. He said something like “we haven’t studied it ourselves yet,” he asked the minimum salary that I was counting on, I replied that it was 50k. He said that most likely I would need to be sent for training, so my salary would be less, he took my resume and promised to call me back. Naturally, no one called me back.

I continued sending my resume to hh. One of the vacancies required performing a simple algorithmic task. As an increased level of complexity, there was a task to work with the frontend. I completed both with enthusiasm and… {to be continued…}

Afterword

Recently, gastritis, which, as I understand it, arose from nervousness, has also been added to my bouquet.

Now I am working on my project (an expert medical system and an interactive clinical simulator for medical students), I do not have money for medicine (venlafaxine) and food. My closest person does not want to live in such conditions and wants to leave. But my project is the only thing that gives me the feeling that I am doing something useful for society (and for the owner of some trading company) and I am 120% confident in it.

If any of the readers would like to help financially, you can transfer funds through the donate button. Thanks everyone!